Here Comes the Sun

01 | talking to the moon

March 1983

SOME PEOPLE SAY THAT YOU can't always trust the people close to you; perhaps they were right. Whether they are a friend, a lover, or just a random kind stranger that you met one night. You keep your friends and your enemies closer, something that I should've done, and then maybe I- maybe things would've ended up differently.

The moon hung high in the night sky, casting a warm yellow glow and nearly brightening up the sky. As if a string was holding it up. In the moonlight, the trees swayed back and forth in the breeze, creating shadows that danced across my bedroom floor. I wrap myself up in my blanket when the cool air from the air vent on the ceiling turns on but with only my legs sticking out.

But I really don't mind the cold though.

Staring up at the moon now, I used to believe in the Man on the Moon story. Correction: I still believe in it ... just sometimes. I wonder if he ever gets homesick or lonely up there in space. You and me both, is what I'd say to him. I guess he's not alone if there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of twinkling stars, sitting right next to him and brightening up the deep voids of space. Sometimes I even wonder how he ended up there in the first place. The only thought that came to mind was that he was a rocket man who was stranded on the moon by his crew after he completed a mission and he just accepted his fate.

I can't remember the last time that was stargazing; maybe when I was around ten years old but the memory feels so far away. However, I vaguely remember those hot summer nights, my parents and I at the city park, lying down on our old beat-up red picnic blanket and looking up at the stars. My dad was a self-proclaimed astrophile and loved astronomy in the same way that I did, well, when I was small. I used to think that if I brought a star down to earth and kept it in a jar on my nightstand, it'd be like having an electricity-free nightlight.

But here I am at twenty-two doing the same thing. And there are nights like this whether I want to sit on the couch, eat a cup of Ben and Jerry's, and watch the latest episode of Bob Ross doing another painting. I know it sounds boring but to me, it was the perfect remedy for depression.

Bea, my four-year-old Siberian cat, lays across my lap, her warmth radiating from her furry body. I move my hand from the top of her head to her back. A loud purr erupts from her and one side of her ear twitches when my finger grazes up against it. She doesn't move a lot but it's enough for her to be extra comfortable. Because of what happened in my incident, my parents and the therapist only thought that it was right for me to have an emotional support animal to help with any sort of panic attack; not that they have been bothering me for a while like it did in December and January.

It's like having a baby, except she was adopted, rescued from the animal shelter, and she's a cat. But I wouldn't change a thing about her. At least, she's one of the few things in my life helping me bring back the peace.

How long have I been awake? The glowing green numbers on my digital alarm clock read, 2:55. Just before I went straight to bed, my parents and I got into a full-blown argument about taking legal action. The last thing I need is for things to get worse than they already are. The police are already involved - though, I highly doubt they'll do anything except sleep on the case.

These nightmares just keep coming, not as bad as the last one but God, do I hate them. I lean against the cold glass window and wait to drift off to sleep.

And maybe the sunrise will be the first thing I see.

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